Ashes.
The wind picked up here, though the trees gave a sense of calm to it. It was gentle and caressed the rings of his hair, and each particle of dusty snow fluttered more akin to the movement of a butterfly than a bird. They did not glide with grace, but flung whatever direction the air took them and as he held out his hand a piece place itself into his palm. His head sank to gaze at it. There was plenty of light here, though the sun had disappeared behind a thick layer of clouds, an afternoon coming to a close. As he pressed it into his palm, tracing a mark of soot across his palm, he swallowed hard on a dry throat.
Peering upward, he viewed his surroundings, the dilapidated structures of a crumbling house, barn, and shed. Whoever had lived here, it was a while ago, or they left as the place had burned to the ground. And what tracks were found were the faint prints of a hound passing through, or a deer if he wasn't mistaken.
Bishop crouched and placed a few fingers in the soil, breathing lightly and shallowly, listening. The wind itself was silent as he continued to listen. Perhaps he was alone after all. He stood and stalked over to the remains of the structures. He observed it all with a quiet solemnity and tried to envision the people that lived here before. It had obviously been a farm with what he could tell from the expanse of dirt that had once been tilled, also coated in ashes. And the barn whose roof was half fallen through, and what walls still stood were scorched nearly all the way through, and prepared to cave in at any moment.
The house was slightly sturdier, but not by far. The walls that remained were supported by the weight of a half-burnt door resting on it, two sides left standing and other caved or burned through. Bishop stepped lightly into the structure, the floor merely slats placed on the soil for support and tied with charred rope in some places, rope that now resembled fine string. It was a small farm, and the family that lived here was probably not a large one. He looked to his right and saw a blacked, charred stone oven in one corner and a busted bed frame in the other.
Bishop squinted his eyes to see what was beside it before stepping forward himself. He knelt again and picked up the object, a charred wooden doll that he was surprised hadn't been eaten up by the fire. It was what looked like a young girl's doll, the face, though chipped and blackened with smoke, was a smiling and had been painted on rather artistically. Bishop clutched the tiny doll in one hand and found himself grinning back at the tiny object in his much larger hand.
"Lora," he murmured, and felt tears welling up in his eyes and he remembered the young face of his daughter. She had a doll similar to this one. He'd carved it for her years ago, whittled in eyes and a nose and a mouth before painting it with such care. It had a yarn body, where this one had a wooden one, and she had played with the damn thing so much it was already coming apart at the seams and had been badly in need of repair. He'd promised her he'd fix it. Promised her before...before...
Bishop stopped and whipped away a tear that had fallen from the barricade of his eyelids and wiped it on his shirtsleeve. Not here, not now, he told himself. There was no use in recalling something that he could not fix, could not have mended. Bishop clutched the doll in his hand again, thumb tracing over the half-painted face and suddenly jumped at a noise of wood moving. His nerves already on end, Bishop whirled around, looking with wild eyes at his surroundings.
Quickly he saw a shape move out of the corner of his eye, out his sight and disappearing behind one of the walls. Whether it was a person or an animal, he didn't know, but he knew he was no longer alone. Though he could not make it out, he saw the figure duck behind the still-standing remains of the shed not too far from where he was. Bishop moved out from the house, looking out to where he thought he saw the figure move.
"Who's out there?" he called, sounding braver than he really felt. "Whoever you are, I'm not going to hurt you." It was a fool's phrase to use especially out in the middle of nowhere, but it was worth a try.
